I'm Not In Love
by LoyaulteMeLie
Summary: As a member of a Section 31 Covert Operations team, Pard can't afford emotional entanglements. But events are suddenly taken out of her hands - until she has to face the biggest decision of her life. Rated for bad language and adult concepts.
1. Chapter 1

**Star Trek and all its intellectual property is owned by Paramount/CBS. No infringement intended, no profit made.**

**This story been beta-read by VesperRegina, to whom I offer my sincere thanks, as always.**

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><p>This had been a bad one.<p>

They'd known it was going to be. But they hadn't known how bad. Not until they were inside the building. And then it was too late.

Fuck, they were used to shitty jobs. That was what they were for – to do things other teams wouldn't touch. But even for them, even for the team that prided itself on its can-do, will-do, fuck-you mentality, this had been a bad one. As the York had left orbit, even Stripes had been silent; and he was usually the one who came up with some blackly humorous irreverent shit that they could all laugh at and thus begin the process of forgetting.

Not today.

Pard looked down at the tousled dark head that rested between her breasts, and stroked it. Jag always came to her bed after an op. Mostly it was to celebrate, to earth any adrenaline the action hadn't discharged. Today, however, there had been no celebration. There hadn't even been any sex. He simply held her, and said nothing. Even his eyes had given nothing away, storm-gray and utterly uncommunicative. A less self-contained man might have wept, but she suspected the hurt Jag had sustained was too bitter for the relief of tears.

Which made everything just too complicated for words.

She too had_ been there_. Sometimes when they mated they bit each other, and licking each other's faces was an accepted sign of affection between them – probably the nearest anyone on the ship came to expressing such a thing. So she understood quite well the dichotomy between the quiet, cultured man who could occasionally be encountered in that complex personality, and the ruthless killer who didn't give a fuck who he was ordered to kill or what means he had to use to do it. They were the same, products of the same process. They were told to kill and they killed. It was as simple as that. Usually.

But not today.

It was a fine damn time for her contraceptive injection to have failed. A fine damn time for her to find out that she was pregnant, and that the father of the child inside her was not the utterly heartless bastard the process should have produced; that some of his humanity had endured, and that he was heartsick and grieving over what they'd done.

'Complicated' didn't come _near_ what the situation was now.

She knew, even if he didn't, that for him this was the beginning of the end. It might take months, it might take years – if he lived that long – but sooner or later, Jag would leave the Section. His love affair with it was over. You joined it for excitement or revenge or just because you liked the thought of a walk on the Dark Side, but unless it succeeded in suffocating the decency in you altogether, sooner or later you'd find out the truth: that it promised more than it could ever pay, and took more than you could ever afford.

Most times she didn't bother thinking through the ethics side of it. She wasn't comfortable with self-analysis at the best of times, and certainly on a day like today she wasn't going to make an exception. The Section afforded her excitement, which she craved, and she liked the team she was with. They worked well together, their disparate personalities complementing each other in a way that made them immensely strong and effective. Maybe too effective, really – because that's the sort of team that gets handed the jobs nobody else wants. The sort of job they'd carried out today.

_Fucking politics_. It wasn't the first time she'd thought that and it wouldn't be the last. It had hammered through her mind, a repeated phrase in a protective stream of invective as she'd worked.

Leo hadn't said much in the pre-briefing. Just things that included _civil war_ and _resistance_ and _holding up negotiations_ and complicated and, finally, in a voice that fell as flat and heavy as an oaken coffin lid: _They don't want any survivors_.

Which was all very well when the last pocket of resistance was comprised of hard-bitten veterans who could give as good as they got, who were fighting for pride or revenge or bloodlust, or just because there was nothing else to do with their lives except sell them for as high a price as weapons would command. Or drug dealers – the Section dealt with them on a fairly routine basis, cleaning up nests of traffickers. Being handed a drug bust always brightened the team's day. But today's job had taken things down to a whole new level. It would take time for it to sink in.

Jag's arms tightened around her momentarily, jerking her from the dark stream of her thoughts. She knew by the flick of his lashes against her bare skin that he wasn't asleep. He too was reliving the day.

She stroked his hair again. Maybe it was for comfort, though she knew that he was beyond any comfort. Maybe it was because she didn't know what else to do. The small analysis kit from the medical supplies was still in the drawer beside her, its blue light glowing in the darkness; a problem that wasn't going to go away.

The door hissed open.

She didn't move, nor did Jag. The days were long gone when any of the team didn't know what another looked like naked. As for surprising them _in flagrante_, well Leo knew both of them far too well to think of that.

He rarely showed anything in his face, but she found herself thinking now that he looked exhausted. Shit, they all looked exhausted. Still, as the team leader he carried an additional burden of responsibility: he'd given the orders. Not that any of them blamed him for that. If anyone at all blamed him, it would be himself. And no-one would ever know about it, except that one day he'd put a phase pistol into his mouth and that would be that.

"One of the birds died," he said quietly. He gave her and Jag a long, unreadable look, and then left again.

'Spots', their engineer, kept finches. They were a part of life on board ship. Most times wherever he was working there would be some accompanying sound of chirping or cheeping as one of his tiny charges hopped around his shoulders or his head, or perched on a wire to inspect his handiwork. He even allowed them to check out the contents of his plate at dinner, though should they show interest in anyone else's he'd immediately catch them up and transfer them back to his shoulder, his big hands deft and infinitely gentle.

Now one of them was lying on the floor of the cage, dead. She could picture the tiny claws, crooked and motionless. The bright button eyes, glazed over.

She could cry over a bird. That was okay, that was permitted. She stared up at the ceiling as the tears started to run, absolutely silent. Not so much as a quiver in her breathing gave her away. Though she didn't even know which of the birds it was that had died. Maybe it was one of the little gray ones with the orange patches, the ones that always sounded like a squeaky toy being pressed. She hoped it wasn't the yellow and white one, she was kind of fond of that one herself–

Jag shifted suddenly. He raised himself on one elbow and studied her gravely, watching the tears flow. "Cry some for me, will you, Pard?" he said at last, and then leaned down and kissed her gently.

They hardly ever kissed. Kisses were for lovers, and they didn't love each other. You didn't love anyone, not in this business. Some days she wasn't even sure she liked him, let alone loved him, but he was brilliant in bed – inventive and exciting and subtle and playful, he was all of them by turns, so that was why she found him so attractive.

Maybe he was perplexed by the gesture too. He retreated into normality, licking her face tenderly, consolingly. A low whine that was almost a moan escaped her, so that she was angry with herself for the weakness. He must have heard the click of teeth, because he licked her nose, which tickled as it always did, and then pressed his cheekbone to hers. Her tears wet both their faces, so that maybe she was crying for him too, as he'd asked.

And the problem still hadn't gone away.

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><p><strong>All reviews received with sincere gratitude!<strong>


	2. Chapter 2

"Deal with it. There's stuff in the medi-kit."

"Fuck off."

Harris's face didn't change. It hardly ever did. It hadn't even altered when she told him. But she knew, nevertheless, that he was irritated. This was not in the least surprising. A Covert Ops team was hardly the damned place for a baby.

She leaned closer to the monitor. "Get this. _I am not getting rid of it._ And if by any chance I get mysteriously sick and just happen to lose it, I'll be coming after who's responsible. You wouldn't want that to happen. You saw the video."

Neither of them had ever mentioned it. But one of the operatives who'd been sent to collect her from her conditioning had gotten careless one day. He would probably have screamed a lot longer if her teeth hadn't ripped his throat out.

"You could lose it naturally anyway," he pointed out coolly. "You going to hold me responsible for that?"

"Just pray that I don't."

They eyed each other across subspace.

"Which of them gave it to you? Do you know?"

She ignored the implied insult. "That's none of your business."

Apparently the reply had given him more information than she'd wanted it to. "Does he know?"

"No."

"Is he going to know?"

"No."

The heavy face pantomimed a frown. "Let me guess. You're going to leave the Section and turn respectable. Give up everything for love, and go live in some small-town apartment bringing up the baby on your own."

"Sure," she spat. "Every small town has jobs going for a woman who's good at breaking into buildings, blowing things up and killing people. I'll fit in just fine, I'm sure."

"Operative, let me make one thing perfectly clear." He leaned forward. "This is a Covert Operations department, not a nursery. We don't have cradles and we're not buying one. You want to keep the baby, fine. Personally I think it's a waste of a good career, but that's your decision. You want motherhood, you have it. But not on my payroll."

Pard bared her teeth at him. "You think I'm fit to be a mother now, after what you did to me? You think I've still got it in me to change diapers and pack lunchboxes and turn up at Parents' Evenings and help with homework? Yeah, I can just imagine it. 'Help you with quadratic formulae? Heck, I can't even spell it, but if you need a hand with ways to kill someone so they can't even squeal, you know where to come.'"

His smile in return was hard. "I'm relieved you have that much grip on reality left."

"I have enough grip on reality to know that you don't want to lose me. Not after what it cost the department to put a team like ours together. Not now you know what we can do." _Not now you know just how low we're willing to sink._

A slight nod conceded the point. He knew she'd thought this through, and was waiting for the deal to be put on the table.

"I also know you can organize things if you want to," she went on coldly. "I want to be taken out of the team for a while. Sent on a temporary assignment. Only you and I will know it's maternity leave."

"And?"

"And you find someone to have the baby when it's born. Someone who'll look after it. And don't bother trying to front up some asshole who'll take it away and drop it down the nearest garbage chute. I'll meet them. I'll talk to them. I'll smell them. And you know what I'll do if I don't like what I smell."

She watched him consider. The smallest suggestion of a smile flickered briefly across his mouth, as though he'd thought of something that amused him.

"I suppose something could be arranged."

"Good." She kept her hands on the table, in plain view. It was ridiculous that just for a second she'd had the urge to drop them to her belly, as though to say,_ I'm sorry, this is the best I can do._

"I suppose you'll want to be kept up to date from time to time?"

Pard lifted her chin resolutely. She'd thought this through. "No."

Harris's eyebrows rose. "No? Nothing? And what about the kid? No letters for when it grows up and starts asking questions?"

"No." That point she was absolutely clear on. Better to know nothing, better to wonder. Better never to find out what its parents were capable of; it was a thousand times easier to live with curiosity than shame and horror. Better anything than that.

And as for her keeping tabs on it – for watching him or her grow up calling someone else Mom, well that was a torment she could spare herself. Because in addition to the grief, there would always be the danger of letting something slip to the man who didn't even know he was a father. Their relationship was simple of necessity, and she liked it that way. She knew instinctively that he wasn't the sort of guy who'd shrug away his unexpected status, not giving a damn as long as the problem was sorted. He'd ask questions, he'd want to get involved, and the whole damned thing would get unendurably complicated. Best, on all counts, to keep things straightforward.

"Well. I've got a few inquiries to make. Then I'll look into how we can work this." He looked at her narrowly. "Understand, if I start this there's no changing your mind. No last-minute _I can't stand to give it away_ bullshit. We make a deal, you stick to your side of it. Is that clear?"

"Perfectly. As long as you stick to yours. I sniff a rat, and all bets are off." She leaned back, and delivered her final ace. "And one last thing. I'll be leaving a file for the father to find if I don't come back here right on schedule. So I suggest you make sure I do come back, and best of all that I come back happy. You don't want two of your little pets mad at you."

"You're forgetting something, Operative. When I get an ants' nest in my garden I don't wait for them to bite me. I just pick up a canister from the hardware store and spray it before they get the chance."

"Sure." Pard smiled before she cut the connection. "But it's no use having a canister if the ants are behind you. And one of us _will_ be behind you, Harris."

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><p><strong>All reviews received with gratitude!<strong>


	3. Chapter 3

The team gathered for a late supper.

Nobody was hungry or talkative. They picked at their food in a sullen silence.

This was a dangerous stage. They would be all too ready to pick fights over nothing, their overstrained tempers seeking an outlet for emotions they couldn't express in any other way. Leo was wearing a phase pistol clipped at his belt. Presumably it was set on stun, but it was probably best not to find out.

"I've had a transmission from Harris," the team leader said presently, his bass rumble as expressionless as his face. "He has a job for one of us."

Spots was checking some minute problem with the firing mechanism of Jag's beloved antique Lee Enfield rifle. He growled something beneath his breath about not splitting the team. He didn't like it; none of them liked it at all. They watched each other's backs, and that made them feel safe.

"So who's the lucky guy?" asked Stripes, not looking up from his crossword puzzle.

Leo made eye contact with her just before he spoke, watching her reaction – or lack of it. "Pard."

Jag had been putting together a small explosives device. He was using genuine materials, and if he made an error they were all dead. He connected a tiny circuit with extreme care. "Then one of us goes with her."

"None of us goes with her," Leo corrected him. "We have a surveillance job to do."

_"Surveillance?"_ Spots looked up from the rifle with annoyance. "Since when do we do fucking surveillance?"

"Since we get orders to do fucking surveillance."

"So basically, we've had orders to sit around on our arses doing nothing for a while. What do they think we need – recuperation time?" There was a vicious, sneering note in Jag's voice. "Who're we going to be watching? The local home for head-cases, just in case?"

"We'll rendezvous with a Rigelian freighter in two days to transfer Pard. Then we head out to Kappa Fornacis."

_"Deneva?"_ said Stripes blankly.

"Yes. Deneva. Their piracy problem is getting worse."

Spots laid down the rifle carefully. "We don't have the armaments to tackle large-scale organized piracy. Some of those ships could blow _York_ out of the sky without breaking sweat."

"We're not ordered to tackle them. We're ordered to just watch them."

"And that's the best bloody job they can come up for us to do?" Jag snarled. "Sure they haven't got any nice little old ladies who need their hands held while they cross the road?"

Pard helped herself surreptitiously to a third pickled onion. These were Jag's, and a delicacy she'd never developed much of a taste for. For some reason, however, over the last week or so she'd suddenly started to find them delicious. Now and again, when she woke in the night, she had to exert enormous self-control to prevent herself from tiptoeing into the galley and helping herself to the whole jar. "So what do they want_ me_ for?" she asked, trying to keep her voice light and scornful, with just the right edge of legitimate curiosity.

Leo shrugged. His gaze fell on the pickled onion jar, and lingered there just a fraction of a second too long. "Some crap that's expected to take a while. Best part of a year, maybe."

"A _year!_" Jag slammed the device down on to the table so hard that everybody flinched, but presumably he'd disconnected the detonator.

"Back to spanking the monkey for a while, hey, Jag?" snickered Stripes, which won him a round of vulgar laughter, while the object of it glared.

"That's the information I was given," the team's leader said flatly. "If you want more, you know where to ask for it."

He wouldn't, of course. He wouldn't waste his time. But she could see his real fury in the short, sharp movements with which he began dismantling the device.

He made no secret of it later, when they were in bed together. This in itself was a departure, because normally they slept in their own bunks; he was a light sleeper, and her movements disturbed him unless he was sunk in the exhaustion of adrenaline drop.

Evidently he intended to make the most of their remaining time before her departure. Rage had obviously ignited his dormant lust. He strode into her room and yanked the covers off her without any preamble, which made her mad in her turn, though not nearly mad enough to tell him to get the hell out. A year was a long time, after all.

Not knowing of her condition, he didn't know her breasts were now achingly sensitive. A caress that normally would have been exciting now felt like a mauling, and in reflex she slapped him, but caught herself up in time to turn it into a rough, shoving caress that was enough to take the edge off his astonished anger. The act that followed was as much fight as sex. They bit hard enough to leave marks, and for the first time she fought dirty, eliciting snarls as he countered her tactics with some of his own in the struggle to subjugate her.

Afterwards there was a long quiet between them.

Presently she turned her head on the pillow. It had been so long since his breathing calmed that she thought he might have fallen asleep, but the starlight from the porthole found bright reflections in his eyes. _I'll miss you, Jag._

_Will you sleep in other beds while I'm gone?_

Stupid question. He probably would. Sometimes a mission entailed using sex. She'd done it herself, and it meant nothing. They both accepted that as just one more dirty job in a dirty business.

After all, it wasn't like they were in love, or anything.

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><p><strong>All reviews received with gratitude!<strong>


	4. Chapter 4

Pard rested her head against the window and sighed.

All of the days since she'd left the team had been slow and uneventful, but as her pregnancy progressed she'd inevitably grown heavier and more lethargic. She'd done her best to remain active, to maintain her always excellent fitness levels, but the child was sapping more and more of her energy and the dragging weight was taking its toll of her body. Her hair, once glossy, lay on her shoulders in lifeless hanks. She could no longer sleep soundly at night, which might have helped. Now, whenever she looked in a mirror, she winced.

_If he could see me now…._

What would he think?

During the dead reaches of the night she sometimes tried to imagine it. Tried to imagine his reaction if he walked in the door right now.

Maybe it would be better not to. He'd probably drop dead from the shock.

Just then the baby kicked. She put a hand on the swell of her belly, feeling the little impacts against her palm. "Heard me thinking about your daddy, huh?" she murmured.

From the start, she'd tried not to become attached to the child growing inside her. Her determination to have it adopted remained unshaken; that would be best for both of them, and developing an emotional attachment to it would just make things a hell of a lot more painful than they needed to be. She'd refused to be told what sex the infant was, had avoided looking at the medi-screen when regular monitoring scans displayed its tiny, growing body, and had done her best to think of it as a burden of which she would soon be rid. But the seed of affection had taken root almost against her will, even in such stony soil as a nature hardened and warped as hers had been, and now and then she found herself behaving as though she actually loved the damn thing.

Which was ridiculous, on all counts.

Appositely, there was a tinkle of the door chime. Someone was requesting permission to enter. At a guess, it was just another of the medical team now supervising her progress; it seemed that Harris had taken to heart her warning that nothing bad had better happen during her pregnancy. This Starfleet facility on Proxima had first-rate facilities.

Her doctor entered. To her mild surprise, he had another guy in tow, one she hadn't seen before: a Denobulan, also wearing the standard issue Starfleet medical team gown.

"Good afternoon, Miss Lyon," he said, his voice a little too hearty, as though he wasn't sure how she'd take what he was going to say next. "I'd like you to meet one of our guests, Doctor Phlox from the Interspecies Medical Exchange."

"Delighted to make your acquaintance, Miss Lyon," the Denobulan said cheerfully. She liked him at once, receiving the instant impression of someone whose trade was far more to them than just a way of earning a living.

"My pleasure, Doctor," she said politely. Normally she'd have extended her hand, but she knew that his species did not engage in casual physical contact.

"Doctor Phlox is on his way to Earth for an extended visit as part of the Exchange Program," Doctor Lyneham went on, seemingly encouraged by her complaisance. "He's spending a couple of months with us by way of preparation for dealing with human physiology in the flesh as opposed to in journals and training programs."

"Fascinating! Quite fascinating!" Phlox beamed at her, and she found herself grinning back at him.

"So I guess it's just a coincidence that you've come on a visit to the only pregnant woman in the Starfleet compound, hey?" she said slyly.

Lyneham looked somewhat mortified by being caught out so easily, but the other doctor's smile merely broadened – a feat that she would have thought practically impossible.

"I have three wives, Miss Lyon, and since each of them has three husbands, I am not inexperienced in overseeing childbirth. However, you may certainly refuse my services if you wish. I won't be in the least offended."

"You'll be attended by experienced Starfleet staff as well, at all times," the consultant put in hurriedly. "You don't need to have any anxiety on that score, I assure you."

Standing for any length of time was becoming hard on her spine. Pard sat down on the bed and gazed into those unearthly blue eyes, which returned her searching stare with equanimity. She could guess why Lyneham and his bosses were keen to play ball; it was quite the honor for Earth to have been included in the IME, considering the way the Vulcans were so keen to practically put up fences around the solar system – presumably to keep humanity from contaminating the galaxy, for all they said it was for their own good.

As for Starfleet's displeasure if she refused, she didn't give a toss. She didn't want to take a chance with this baby. It had come to represent something saved from the ruins that she and Jag had become – the ruins of what they might have been, if fate and their own choices had dictated otherwise.

Still, she'd grown used to trusting her own instincts. They all did that. There had been too many times to count when it had saved their lives.

"I don't want your experienced Starfleet staff."

One of the bushy, strongly arched brows lifted. "A very decisive young lady, I see," he commented with a twinkle.

"Well, with all those babies by all those wives I guess you've had more practice than most of the guys around here. And I've always believed there's no teacher like experience."

Doctor Lyneham's face smoothed out with relief. "I'll leave you to get acquainted, then," he said, and fairly whisked himself out of the room as though fearing that if he lingered she might change her mind.

"I see I have a good deal of research to do in the next couple of weeks." Phlox gazed with interest at the medi-scanner. "I seem to recall that the basic process is very similar between Denobulans and Humans, but one likes to be thoroughly prepared for every eventuality."

"That would be sort of a comfort," she said wryly, having just burned her boats in that respect.

He spooled through a few more screens, humming in a way she found vaguely soothing, while she lay back on the pillows and tried – without much success – to get comfortable. The baby was still kicking. On top of it the soft white fabric of her nightdress shifted slightly, seemingly all of its own accord, which looked kind of eerie, but she didn't care about the kicking because a couple of weeks back there had been a whole afternoon when there hadn't been anything, and she'd been halfway to believing the baby was dead by the time an almighty whack against her bladder informed her otherwise. Presumably Jag Junior had just been having an extra-long nap, but the experience had scared the crap out of her by showing her how much she'd come to care.

She tried not to dwell on that fact.

After a couple of minutes Phlox had evidently seen everything the medi-scanner could show him. He didn't leave at once, however, but sat in the chair beside the bed.

"There is one thing I would like to discuss with you," he said gently. "I see on your notes that you intend to give up this baby for adoption."

"That's right." Her mouth tightened. He was going to give her a lecture about happy families, tell her she didn't have to do this. Like he had any idea what her situation was.

"I'm quite sure you've considered carefully before coming to such a difficult decision," he continued, his face full of sympathy. "I want you to know that whatever you finally decide to do, whether you change your mind or continue with the adoption process, you will have my support."

She was horrified to find tears pricking at her eyes. Unable to trust her voice, she just nodded.

"And I want you to promise in return that you will be open and honest with me about your wellbeing – and not just your physical condition, but also your state of mind. Giving up a baby will not be easy for you. No matter how prepared you think you are, or how strong you believe you are, there will be a period of grieving. I can help you with it, but it is a part of your recovery process. To shield you from it completely would be ultimately counter to your best interests. You may think me unfeeling, but I have your welfare at heart, however unlikely that may seem at the time."

"Sounds like you think I'm going to be a problem patient," she managed.

"I think you're a very brave young lady doing what seems best in difficult circumstances. You already know it won't be easy. I just want you to know you won't be alone."

_Fucking hell._ She turned her head away and squeezed her eyes shut. How did this guy know so much? She'd read her notes, knew they gave nothing away. How could he possibly know she missed her team with a physical ache, wondered every day where they were and what they were doing; even whether they were still alive. That all she was holding on to now was the thought that there was just one fence left to clear and then it'd all be over, and she could go back to what she knew and was good at. Except that now she would have a secret; one she would have to hold on to for the rest of her life, if she wanted that life to continue.

"You should get some rest," Phlox added, his voice soft with sympathy. "And perhaps this afternoon we can organize a nice soak in a warm bath for you. My wives always found a bath remarkably soothing. And I'm sure one of the kind nurses here will wash your hair for you."

"I can wash it myself," she muttered.

"Doctor's orders." Unexpectedly, she felt his hand patting her arm in a fatherly way. "In my experience, there's nothing that perks up a pregnant lady better than a little spoiling. And I prescribe an extra-large dose for you, my dear."

He left the room, presumably to make arrangements. She stared after him, blinking away the moisture. It couldn't be denied, the thought of a long hot soak had suddenly become extremely attractive: the water would buoy up the weight of her bulging belly and relieve the pressure on her spine. She'd still be ungainly of course, but for just a little while she could escape the sensation of being a beached whale. And she couldn't remember the last time she'd had the luxury of having anyone else wash her hair. Maybe there wasn't anything much that could be done to bring it up to normal, with her hormones all over the place, but perhaps some nice shampoo, and a good conditioner – it was a working bet that Phlox would have that angle covered. And more than either the prospect of a hot bath or a decent hair treatment, the promise of his care and support had bolstered her flagging spirits immeasurably.

"Guess we both got lucky, huh?" she murmured, caressing the baby. "Phlox will look after the both of us."

She felt better now than she'd done at any time since she'd arrived on Proxima.

Maybe, just maybe, she could get through this in one piece.

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><p><strong>All reviews received with gratitude!<strong>


	5. Chapter 5

It turned out that she needed Phlox's support even sooner than she'd expected to.

Just as he'd predicted, the bath and the gentle hair-washing did wonders for her; the conditioner had even been so good she was able to pin her hair up and have it tumbling across her face the way she liked it. It was a bit of a chore to be helped out of the bath and returned to the status of a beached whale again, but she felt clean and rested afterwards. She lay on her bed in a warm fuzz of contentment, gently massaging a little perfumed oil into the skin of her abdomen, which had gotten slightly dry of late. Medical opinion was divided on whether oil did much to prevent stretch marks, but she was hoping it might help. When she went back to the team, she'd have to make sure that no tell-tale marks were visible. Doubtless Phlox would be able to help her out on that score.

Another chime on the door announced that her peace was about to be disrupted.

Somewhat to her surprise, it was Doctor Lyneham instead of Doctor Phlox who entered. He looked apprehensive; maybe if she'd had less experience at reading faces she might not have seen it, because he was trying to maintain a professional front, but life in the Section taught you a lot about seeing below the surface of people.

"Miss Lyon," he began uncomfortably. "I realize that there's no way to make this particularly easy for you. The prospective parents have arrived."

Without intending to, she shrank back against the pillows. It was too soon. It would never be the right time.

She had to face this. She had to get through it.

Moments later, Phlox entered the room. He looked across at her, and a shadow crossed his face. "Is there a problem here?"

Doctor Lyneham explained.

"My patient will see them when she feels ready to do so," said the Denobulan. His voice and manner were suddenly curt. "As her physician, her welfare, and by extension that of the child, must be my priority."

"Naturally, naturally." Flustered, the other man retreated. "Perhaps in the morning…"

"Perhaps."

"No." Her nails dug into her palms. "I want to see them now."

"You are under no obligation. If you would require more time to prepare yourself, I'm sure everybody would understand."

She looked up into his unbearable compassion. "It's not going to get any easier, though, is it?"

Silently he shook his head.

She pulled up the covers defensively and hitched herself higher on the pillows, feeling hot and cold and sick and disgusting and scared and trembling with hate. These people wanted to take her baby away from her, hers and Jag's.

Doctor Lyneham left the room. Phlox walked over to the bed and stood beside her, in mute support.

After a few minutes, the door opened again.

She wanted to hate the people who came through it.

The woman was small and blonde, not as tall as she was. Pretty, with a nice mouth unmarred by bitterness and pain. Her clothes were crumpled with travel; she hadn't even stopped to wash and change. She was pale, and her eyes were enormous with strain.

The man – her husband, presumably – was a head taller, and kept his arm protectively around her. Physically he was a bit gangly, with rumpled light brown hair and a kind, clever face. His gaze held the same compassion as Phlox's.

It was totally unfair that she liked him on sight too. So Pard glared at him, just in case anyone got any ideas that they were going to be friends. This was a transaction, pure and simple. They got a baby, and she got her life back. So they needn't think she was some needy kid they could befriend. They had no fucking_ idea_ what she was, these nice clean people who were looking at her like she mattered and they were sorry for her. They didn't give a crap about her. They just wanted her baby, and were scared she'd change her mind and want to keep it. And they didn't know what she'd done, or they wouldn't touch her genetic material with a ten-meter pole. Boy, were they in for a shock when their little darling started garroting her dollies or battering other preschool kids with a plastic baseball bat. And teaching it to eat should be a revelation. Maybe she should warn them to buy a feeding bowl instead of a cutlery set.

Lyneham was dithering like a blindfolded chicken. "Miss Lyon, let me introduce you to Mister and Mrs. Grenham."

"Please, call me Joelle." The woman advanced with quick, neat steps. Nice shoes, with nice heels just high enough to give her calves an elegant shape. The sort of shoes you don't get to wear when you may need to run for your life at any moment, or when you're called on to run someone down and plant a knife in their back because a weapon discharge will show up on the sensors.

Pard was furious with her about the shoes. She wasn't going to call her anything. She was even more furious that the stupid woman hadn't so much as glanced at the bulge under the bedclothes, because that would have given her a valid excuse to tell them both to get the fuck out.

"This must be dreadfully difficult for you." Her husband's voice was deep and gentle. "We just want you to know that if you go through with this, if you find you're able to entrust your baby to us, we'll love it like it was our own. You need never be afraid on that score."

_Fuck, fuck, fuck, I can't do this. I can't handle this._ To her horror, Pard found herself fumbling for Phlox's ready clasp like a ten-year-old. She didn't care about Denobulan sensibilities about casual touch. He was her doctor. He'd just have to deal with it.

Joelle stopped a couple of meters from the bed, and drew a deep breath. "I can't begin to imagine how you must feel." Her voice was shy, but clear and direct. "I think if I were you, I'd hate the both of us. So I'll understand if you don't want to talk to us, Miss Lyon. But we'll be the best parents we possibly can for your baby, if – if you don't change your mind about keeping it."

"I won't change my mind." She ground out the words between clenched teeth. Her baby would call this woman Mom, would grow up dandled on this man's knee. Would never look up trustingly into storm-gray eyes, hear an English voice reading favorite stories by lamplight at bedtime….

_Aw, just listen to yourself!_ Jag reading fucking fairy stories! What stories d'you think they'd be, huh? 'Goldilocks and the Three Sehlats'? 'Sinbad the Assassin'?

The idea choked a snort of laughter out of her, and suddenly she was able to release Phlox's hand. "You're right. I'm not going to like you – either of you. But I guess we're going to have to get comfortable with each other, at least. The doc here will tell you when my check-ups are scheduled. You'll want to be here for those. And you'll want to …" she took a deep breath, "you'll want to see the scans. I think that's important."

"Is it a boy or a girl?" the other woman asked. "Not that we care, either way."

"I don't know," Pard said flatly. "I don't want to know. They can tell you, if you're interested. But don't tell me. I don't care." She shut her mouth with an audible snick of teeth on the monstrous lie. She cared too damned much. She was trying to pick her way through this with minimum damage, that was all, and little boy or little girl would be so very much harder to forget than _it_.

With an abrupt movement she shoved down the covers. Her nightdress was still high from when she'd been applying the oil. The dome of a belly nearing the end of the third trimester of pregnancy gleamed in the light, monstrous and ugly. "I suppose you want to touch it," she went on, stupid misery making her even more ungracious than usual. "And before you ask, no, I'm not going to be happy about it. But I'm trying to make myself get used to it. This is your baby, not mine."

_Not Jag's._ She could have howled like a dog. Instead she lay still and shut her eyes, and made herself imagine she was back aboard the _York_ and among her family again. The light touch on her belly came from a hand that had calluses on it from weapons practice, and that could kill without effort. He would care. He'd care too damned much, and that was part of the problem.

She opened her eyes. The hand was Joelle's. Her husband was standing behind her. He had his arms around her, and he wasn't touching, just looking, but his soul stood in his eyes.

She was looking at the nucleus of a family. The family in which her baby would grow up. And one of these days, probably sooner rather than later, she herself would die, when her reactions were too slow and someone else's were faster, and her death would not mean anything at all to any of them. They wouldn't even know about it.

It should have been a shattering realization, but somehow it was also a harsh comfort. She was doing the right thing. The only good thing to come out of her life and Jag's was going to survive, was going to grow up in a good environment with good people.

And that would make bearing everything else possible after all.

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><p><strong>All reviews received with gratitude!<strong>


	6. Chapter 6

She woke with a start to the presence of someone in her room.

It was dark. She'd had difficulty falling asleep the night before, with the Braxton Hicks contractions coming and going, so that once she'd finally succeeded her sleep had been so deep it felt as though she'd been drugged. Nevertheless the familiar spurt of adrenaline brought her wide awake.

The faint smell of his aftershave on the still air told her his identity. Her heart beat up wildly, with joy and fear. He wasn't supposed to know where she was. Nobody was supposed to know. How had he found out?

He stepped closer. She wanted to talk to him, to explain everything, to make him understand. But as he bent over her she caught the faint, unmistakable flash of light off a naked blade.

"You should have told me," he said. The English voice was low, menacing. "I had a right to know."

The wrist moved, quicker than she could possibly have countered. Pain ignited in the base of her belly. She screamed, high and shrill, _"I wanted to! Jag, I'm sorry!"_

She was trapped, tangled in hot darkness welded to her skin. The pain in her guts went on and on, and she struggled to find light and air, panicking and desperate. Cloth across her face, hair across her face, and the waves of cramping pain coursing up her body.

She was tangled up in the sheets. Finally she emerged, gasping and whimpering. She was quite alone. The bedding beneath her was soaked, but her flailing hand found the light switch, and the friendly radiance showed her the wetness was clear, not red. For one mortified moment she thought she'd pissed herself in fright, but the next moment she realized that her waters had broken. Labor had started.

Her estimated due date was only a couple of days from now. The nursing staff had been keeping a close eye on her since the scans showed that the baby had settled deep into her pelvis, ready for the birth. There was a call unit on the table by the bedside, and she pressed the button. Everything she'd read told her that she had a long way to go yet, but still she was seized by the scared need to have company, to have someone tell her that everything would be okay. And, of course, the Grenhams would have to be informed.

Time to start the exercises she'd been taught. No doubt sooner or later she'd need pain medication, but for now she could get on with the business of enduring the 'easy part'. Though if this was the 'easy part'…

A nurse hurried in, assessed the situation and hurried away again. Doctor Phlox had given orders that he should be called immediately. As a Denobulan he didn't need sleep for most of the year, and she'd come to rely on him absolutely.

With some effort she got off the bed. She knew that it would help her if she could keep moving around for as long as possible, but she wanted suddenly to get the curtains open. To see the night sky beyond.

Luck was with her. There were no clouds. The sky beyond the compound was clear and dark, the stars standing in it like frosty jewels. Somewhere out there, her family was missing her. Somewhere out there a man didn't know his child was about to be born.

She pressed her forehead against the glass. She could still smell his aftershave. She was alone and scared, and she'd sworn she wouldn't cry, but two hot, desolate tears crept out from between the eyelids she kept resolutely squeezed shut.

_Let me hold your hand, Jag…._

_Here, you daft haddock. Just don't go getting all sentimental on me._ She could feel the calluses on his hand. His grip was firm and gentle. He was thousands of miles away.

* * *

><p>Her control over events had been lost long ago.<p>

Pain medication had helped. She'd wanted to endure without if possible, but an eon ago she'd given in and accepted half the dose she could have had. That in itself had wounded her pride, but the sheer physical grind of childbirth was the worst thing she'd ever experienced. Sweat ran off her. The nursing staff had changed the bedding twice already, and if nothing happened soon they'd have to change it again.

Fresh air. She'd give anything for a lungful of fresh air.

_If Jag puts his dick anywhere near me again, so help me god I'll rip it off and beat him to death with it._

Another contraction roared over her. She couldn't think till it had passed. Jangled images passed through her head as it cleared, most of them senseless.

One of them, however, stayed with her.

Phlox was beside her. His presence was a tower of strength to which she'd been clinging for hours. Now, dizzy with pain and fear, she threw out a hand and grabbed a fold of his gown.

"Do you believe in karma, Doc?"

His eyebrows rose. "I'm afraid I'm not familiar with the concept, my dear. Why don't you explain it to me?"

His grasp of English was excellent. He was probably just trying to find something to take her mind off things.

"Karma," she gasped. "Payback. You do something bad, you suffer for it sooner or later."

His head tilted. "Ah. It's an attractive idea in some ways, I dare say. We'd all like to feel that those who hurt us will get what I believe you Humans call their 'comeuppance'. But I'm afraid my experience leads me to believe that in real life it doesn't really happen."

He looked at her more closely. "Is something troubling you?"

You could say that. If she'd believed in God she might have found some comfort in speaking to a priest, though there was always the chance that anyone to whom she unburdened herself might shortly end up dead – at a guess, the Section would pin little faith on the seal of the confessional keeping its secrets. As it was, though she shared the burden of her sins equally with four other sinners who could understand her all too well, on this occasion the darkness of what they'd done eight months ago had hung over her, and now the dead clamored for their revenge.

The team had known what they were going to do when the scoutship landed. They'd been given absolutely specific instructions.

_No survivors._

But they hadn't known that all the people in the ruined council block were women and children.

Babes in arms. Some far too young to know what was happening, some old enough to know all too well.

By the most brutal of ironies, if the women hadn't attacked they might have gotten away with it. If they'd had the sense to stay still, or even to plead for mercy, the first frozen instant of horrified realization might have lasted long enough for the team's collective conscience to kick in. Because they _had_ a conscience; they weren't monsters… not completely. Not yet.

But the women hadn't known that. They hadn't had any weapons as such, but they weren't going to let that stop them. They were brave and they were stupid and they were desperate and very soon they were all dead, and once the killing rage had set in –_ they say kill and we kill_, and thankfully it hadn't been very long before the team reassembled in the scoutship and inspected each other's hurts. Well, the visible hurts at least; they all knew that they'd taken wounds that nothing in the medi-kit would treat, and that fully-paid-up membership of the Monster Club had just taken a hell of a long step closer.

She'd managed to forget, more or less. Life went on, and there was the baby, and it wasn't as though she was paid to care. There must have been some good reason why they'd had to do what they did. Harris was a bastard, but he wasn't a psycho; he just got done whatever had to be done, however ugly it might be. Thus ran the self-excusing_ credo_ of all hired murderers.

But she hadn't managed to forget everything, much as she'd have liked to. A few scenes had haunted her. And now her pain-addled, drug-addled mind brought them up in high, horrible relief, presenting them to her as though she were still in that council chamber, still operating on auto-pilot with the screams echoing in her ears.

_"Fucking politics!"_ she gasped.

Phlox blinked, and she knew she'd said it aloud. "Sorry, it's – nothing–" Another contraction seized her and she tossed her head from side to side; trying not to fight it, trying to relax and go with it, to let her body do the work it was trying to do. But she was so tired, no, _exhausted_, and she was seized by the unreasoning terror that her baby was going to pay the price for her murderous misdeeds; all this agony was going to be for nothing, and the Grenhams weren't going to get their family after all–

"Miss Lyon." The Denobulan's steadying voice broke into her mounting hysteria. "You will do yourself no good, and may do your baby a great deal of harm, by letting yourself get upset over whatever is preying on your mind. Just for now, I want you to trust me. You will have your baby in a very few minutes now. And afterwards, when we've got you cleaned up and comfortable and you've had a little sleep, if you wish to talk over anything, I will be here."

Just a few minutes. She could bear another few minutes; and it was sweet of him to offer to listen, though she wouldn't dare take him up on it of course… "Grenhams," she panted.

They'd been waiting in the room next door. She hadn't wanted them to witness the long, messy business of labor and all its accompanying indignities. In their few brief meetings she'd come to like them, as hard as she tried not to, but she hadn't been able to spare them the long agony of suspense. Fuck, she was getting soft in her old age, liking all these people.

The nurse went to the door and opened it. By that time, however, Pard was too deep in the contraction to hear anything or see anything. Her world had narrowed down to one huge primeval drive centered on the core of her body. Her grip on a callused hand had tightened so much she could almost hear his bones cracking, but then it was all his fucking fault in the first place, so he could just goddamn put up with it.

"Now, push!"

_What the fuck do you think I'm doing, you stupid Denobulan asshole?_ But she yelled it only in her head, because she liked him too, really, and it wasn't his fault she was shitting a goddamn Christmas turkey with all the trimmings….

People were doing things at the edge of her consciousness. There was a core of intense concentration and activity right in the middle of the place where her body was slowly and exquisitely coming apart.

Tearing, tearing, tearing…_ "JAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAG!"_

Some fucker had dumped a bowl of hot trifle between her thighs. What bastard was eating goddamn trifle in a delivery room?

A small, gasping breath, followed moments later by wail on wail of outrage from a pair of very healthy little lungs.

Something pink and wriggling and bereft was lifted up and deposited gently between her breasts. Not something. Someone.

She didn't know what sex it was. She didn't want to know. She didn't care. It was a little girl. Love clamped itself around her heart.

A little girl who deserved a good family, a good home. Things she couldn't offer.

Love is what helps you do the right thing rather than the easy thing.

She shut her eyes. _You've got to help me with this, Jag._ Not that she loved him, or anything. Because you didn't, in their business.

She got the words said somehow. Joelle lay down on the bed beside her, unfastening her blouse.

She had to do this herself. Somehow. Because that would be some kind of repayment, some kind of … atonement.

Her hands weren't good at holding babies. They were nervous and unsteady. Phlox's helped her to find the right grip. The feeling of the soft, vernix-covered skin imprinted itself on her fingers.

Once she'd started, she kept going. The way she'd kept going back there, doing a thing she couldn't do but had to do. The baby settled onto another woman's bare skin. Misty blue-gray eyes sought for a face, sought to start the bonding process. Joelle was crying. So was Marcellus. Thank God Phlox was keeping his cool; it needed someone around here to keep a grip.

Now she had to let go.

She couldn't.

She just couldn't.

_You can do it for her._

_Fuck you, Jag._

She let go.

And that was it. There were only the necessary things now: the minor discomfort of expelling the afterbirth, the cleaning up, and the delivery of the last gift she could give her daughter – the colostrum, delivered of necessity via a milking machine. And after that there was all the fun of postpartum bleeding to look forward to, not to mention the job of getting her body back into shape when it felt like she'd been inflated like a goddamn barrage balloon and then rolled on by a hippopotamus.

Fragment by fragment she picked up the pieces of the person she'd used to be and put them into a box. She was used to this process. You learned it, in the Section; learned it or blew your brains out. Her soul was full of them. This one, however, had something else in it – something that she had to hide, even to forget insofar as forgetting was possible. It didn't hold just a past, but a potential future; a future that could never have happened, never have worked, because it belonged to a different world, and she had to go back to the real one.

"What are you going to call her?" she whispered, before she knew she was going to.

Joelle's hand was cradling the soft little skull, on which wisps of platinum-fair hair were plastered with vernix. The baby was making soft snuffling sounds, her tiny fingers blindly exploring the skin on which she lay.

The sideways glance was a little shy. "I – we thought, well, we liked Keri. But only if you like it."

"It's fine by me." _Would you like it, Jag? I guess you'd prefer something a little more traditional. Well, I'm going to have to make the call myself on this one. I'm sorry._

"Starfleet will be handling the birth certificate and everything," Pard went on after a moment. "She'll be put down as yours. If there's ever a query regarding her DNA match or anything, it'll be routed to my office. They'll take care of it."

"We can never thank you enough," Marcellus said in a low voice.

"Thank me by looking after her." She gritted her teeth as Phlox supervised the delivery of the afterbirth and clamped the cord. It had already been agreed between the two of them that the new father should have the honor of cutting it. As he was unexpectedly presented with the surgical scissors, Marcellus shot her a look of deep gratitude. There was no doubt that he knew exactly what she meant this to signify.

This was the final gesture. This was the end.

The small sound of the scissor blades closing was like the thud of an ax blade into her soul. As she registered it, she felt the lid of the box slam down for the last time. Everything from here on in would be meaningless. She could give colostrum and feel nothing, she could hear the child cry and feel nothing. Because now it was just someone else's baby.

Or at least that was what she told herself, in the echoing place inside her.

And there was no-one here to tell her any different, even if she'd wanted them to.

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><p><strong>All reviews received with gratitude!<strong>


	7. Chapter 7

Pard was working in the gymnasium a few days later when Marcellus came through the door, announcing his presence with a little tactful cough. This was a habit of his with which she'd grown familiar. It was kind of endearing, like so much about him. His daughter was a lucky little girl.

"The transport's ready to leave," he said at last, gently. "I was wondering…"

She looked up from the ab board which she'd been cleared to use – for extremely short periods at first – that morning, and gave a wry smile. "I think it's for the best if I don't." Because really, there was nothing more to say.

But it seemed that he disagreed with her. He walked over to the weights rack and shifted a couple, aimlessly, before turning around again. "There was something I…" He paused.

She looked at him narrowly. His face was troubled, but his eyes were abstracted, as though he was looking backwards at something he didn't like remembering. "Spit it out, Doc."

His surprise at her knowing was obvious. She didn't enlighten him. She'd wanted to know everything there was to be known about the people who were going to be her child's mommy and daddy. It hadn't been so difficult for her to access his files; she'd seen that for a short while he'd even worked for the Section, though that part was locked down even from her. Probably some top-secret research stuff, since that was his line of work.

He exhaled. For a couple more moments he was silent, thinking, and then he raised his head. "I wanted to thank you for something else. A couple of years ago there was this girl, she was pregnant and … and it went wrong. I couldn't save her. And that's kind of haunted me ever since."

"Yours?" she asked. It would make sense.

"No. But she was my responsibility."

"Then I'm sure you did your best. And the bottom line is, that's all you can do." Her voice was gruff, because the pain in his eyes made her uncomfortable. "I guess that's as close any of us can get to absolution."

There was a little silence between them.

He broke it. "Will you be okay? Is there anything we … is there anything you need?"

She smiled crookedly. "Thanks, but no. I'll be here another month maybe, and then I can go home."

Marcellus coughed. She knew he wanted to ask about the baby's father, but wouldn't; it was far too delicate a subject to broach uninvited.

"And I'll be fine," she added.

He came over and sat on the bench beside her board. His gaze was serious. "Will you? Really?"

He was just so cute. She wanted to hug him and tell him everything would be great and she'd live happily ever after, but she wasn't into lying to people she liked, so she settled for giving him a gallant grin. "Really."

It seemed her old skills hadn't deserted her after all. Her abs might need some serious work to get them back up to full operating strength, but her face was just as good as ever at doing what she wanted it to. And he was such a decent guy at heart that he probably never would be any use at recognizing deceit when he saw it. Such blindness was useful for someone like her.

"You'd better not hang around here too long," she added. "They won't hold that transport for you."

"I have another few minutes." Another pause. "Joelle…"

"I know. Tell her I'm fine and I know she'll be a great mom."

The name that neither of them could utter hung in the air between them.

"Just tell her…" Pard swallowed. "Someday, tell her I loved her."

"It's a promise," he said gently.

His kiss on her brow was as light as the by-brush of a moth's wings, and then he was gone.

* * *

><p>The transport was scheduled to leave at fourteen hundred hours standard time.<p>

She was still in the gymnasium. The clock on the wall opposite counted down the seconds to zero hour.

If she hadn't been utterly motionless, waiting for it, she would have missed the infinitesimal quiver of the floor plating transmitting the vibration of the thruster platform. Much of this part of Proxima II's surface was largely sand, requiring settlements to be built on duranium foundations. The walls were too well insulated for the distant sound to penetrate, but her bare feet picked up the faint, unmistakable tremor.

She leaned back into his arms. She didn't love him and he didn't love her, because you didn't do that in their business, but she could count on him when it mattered. And soon she'd see him again; would see him and lie, spinning out the bullshit that was their agreed cover story, and maybe he'd believe her and probably he wouldn't, but he'd know that she was telling him what she could. Then they'd sit side by side while Leo brought them all up to speed on the next job, and Spots would lift his nesting hen off the eggs to let her see them, and Stripes would complain that crosswords were getting too easy these days and if things didn't improve he was going to try Sudoku; a complaint that he aired every week until he downloaded the puzzle page from The Times that was piggybacked in on official Starfleet transmissions,and subsided into blissful silence.

She'd be with her family again.

She couldn't _wait._

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><p><strong>All reviews received with gratitude!<strong>


	8. Epilogue

"Docking sequence complete. Clamps confirmed engaged. Seal confirmed operative. Airlock outer doors opening."

She was fairly bouncing on the balls of her feet as the stages were rattled off one by one. The lights on the control panel flashed as the air pressures and temperatures equalized.

_Green!_

Her finger jabbed the button. Stupid, stupid door, with no inspection panel she could see through!

She let out a squeal as a lean body darted through the opening door. Jag caught her up and swung her around, laughing. He looked so young, just for a moment; so carefree. As though there were no shadows across their lives, as though they'd live happily ever after.

Well, Probably they wouldn't. But as Stripes tumbled through the door after him, and Spots and Leo followed him somewhat more decorously but with no less welcome in their eyes, that no longer mattered.

She was home again, at last.

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><p><strong>All reviews received with gratitude!<strong>


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